


Tomorrows

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Cunnilingus, F/M, Free Cities AU, Half-Sibling Incest, Rain, Tent Sex, fake married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 23:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12264051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: It’s raining today, a softer rain than the sort that fell in Winterfell or the Vale or even King’s Landing. Most things in Essos seem softer so far: the winds, the ground, the people.And Jon.





	Tomorrows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thefairfleming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/gifts), [vixleonard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixleonard/gifts).



> For thefairfleming, best of fandom wives and best of women, on the anniversary of our first contact.
> 
> (also for lit_chick08/vixleonard, just because)

Sansa had grown up among walls of thick stone. Back then they had seemed stifling, heavy, cold – everything she had fled with such eagerness when she accompanied her father and sister South; it was only later that she’d longed for their familiar comfort, that their remembered weight seemed more reassuring than stifling. It was only later that she realized just how safe she’d always been.

Now her nights are spent in the thin walls and fluttering roof of a canvas tent, yet strangely, it’s the safest she’s ever felt.

It’s raining today, a softer rain than the sort that fell in Winterfell or the Vale or even King’s Landing. Most things in Essos seem softer so far: the winds, the ground, the people. 

And Jon.

His mouth between her legs is soft, slow, sweet, the perfect accompaniment to the gentle patter of the rain on their tent. The first time he’d done this to her, it had been urgent, desperate, both of them giving in to the need between them that had seemed so forbidden. Now it’s familiar. Now he takes time to savor her, supping between her thighs with leisurely care, almost as if it soothes him. As if he could do little else for all the rest of his days and be content. There have been nights she’s woken to the sweet pleasure of his fingers on her, the soft nudge of his nose against her thigh in mute request, and after opening her legs for him in invitation, she’s fallen back asleep with his mouth between them, her crisis taking her with languid pleasure in her dreams. 

It isn’t night now, and she isn’t asleep, but it feels as dreamlike as if she were. After a time, her blood will begin to beat a heavy throb, her belly will twitch with sharp pleasure, and she’ll clutch at his soft curls and urge him closer, deeper, faster, but for now, she lies back against the furs, her knees dropped wide to each side, the slow stroke of her fingers against his scalp teasing his hair into a soft cloud. 

Jon murmurs a contented sound against her, the vibration of it pitching the lazy thrum of her blood a note higher. “How did you ever come to taste so sweet?” he asks, raising his head to fix her with hooded, sensual eyes as he licks his lips with obvious enjoyment.

Even though the sight of it has heat and need quivering in her belly, Sansa smiles softly down at him, at the face that has grown so dear, the face of her brother, her lover, her truest friend. “By eating lemoncakes,” she answers. “Many, many lemoncakes.”

Jon laughs, dropping a kiss on the inside of each thigh in turn before settling his mouth once more between them. It had always been Arya who made Jon laugh, or Robb, or sometimes even Bran, but not Sansa. It should shame her, to think on something that makes him seem more her brother than ever when he touches her so intimately, when he’s tasting her, _savoring_ her as she did all those lemoncakes. Instead she only wants him more, now, all of him. She wants everything he’ll give to her, as hard and deep and fast as she can handle.

It takes several tugs to pull him up her body, and Sansa can tell by the hazy look on his face that he’s nowhere near finished, but suddenly she wants him too much, needs him inside her to make her his and take her home again, for all that they’re here in this tent, on a lonely road halfway across the world. She takes his face in her hands and kisses the taste of herself from his lips as he slides inside her in a single, deep movement, both of them sighing with pleasure at the feel of it.

The rain has come every afternoon of late, driving them into the tent and into each other’s arms without need of question or conversation, and from what Sansa has learned in the towns and markets they’ve visited as they travel – towns and markets where she pretends to be Jon’s wife in truth, the way she feels she is in her heart – that the rains will continue on that way until the autumn comes, and autumn may never come at all. Tomorrow, when the air turns heavy and damp, she’ll lead Jon into the tent and open her arms and legs and heart to him while the rain falls soft over their heads. She’ll come under his tongue once, twice, three times, as he likes best, before taking him inside her. Tomorrow there will be time to go slow. There will be time for everything. The two of them, they have all the tomorrows.


End file.
